


Indelicate

by musamihi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's been wounded in the line of duty, and Sherlock comes to help him get back up on his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelicate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Come at Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com) challenge on Livejournal for the prompt: _I'm being indelicate_. With thanks to Sherlock_Holmes for all the usual reasons.

The temperature outside was plummeting. Greg knew this because he could see the crisp-looking white spreading over his sitting room windows in the low afternoon sun, and because the television kept reminding him, hour after hour, that this mid-February Thursday was set to be the coldest in almost fifty years. But in his cramped, bare little flat, still piled with kicked-up dust and collapsed boxes from the move, all was cozy. The heat was cranking out a downright tropical atmosphere; his shirt hung open, the better to access the bandages clinging all along one side of his ribcage (although he'd rather have hidden away the dark bruising over his abdomen); and he was wrapped snugly in the scent of last night's pizza, of this morning's reheated Chinese, all the settled, homey accents of a place of hibernation. He was comfortable. If he could only spend the next few days like this, he thought he might not even need any of the pills they'd sent him home with. His chair, his mobile, his microwave, and his television: what else did anyone need for recovery?

There was a knock at the door. He ignored it, albeit with a guilty glance at the very audible weather report. He hadn't moved since he'd hauled himself from bed to the kitchen to his chair, and he didn't mean to until he had to accept whatever he decided to order for dinner.

The sliver of shadow under the door remained; the handle rattled; and then the latch gave, and a rush of chilly air swept in from the hall, and Greg groaned and hunched with a grimace over the remote. "Will you _please_ shut the fucking door?"

Sherlock hovered on the threshold, though - unconcerned, unthinking, un-bloody-grateful Sherlock - arching his eyebrow just so at the stack of boxes and the two bin bags that half obstructed his passage through the tiny foyer. "Having a rough start into bachelorhood, are we?"

"Oh, thank you, yes - it _would_ be a great help if you'd take it out," Greg snapped back. The comfort of his ill-kept nest was dissipating under Sherlock's critical eyes - some reward, that. He wouldn't have been in this position at all if it hadn't been for Sherlock's unconventional methods; surely he was owed a little - "Hey!" But Sherlock was already disappearing into the hall, a bag in each hand. Leaving the door open, of course.

Greg ignored him upon his return - only sagging a little in relief when he finally shut the door behind him - and pinned his eyes to the television as though he hadn't already heard this bit about salting roads and travel precautions five times since he'd got out of bed. He'd been alone at home for two days without the man looking in on him once - happily, all right, but he saw no need to share that information - and considering he'd sustained his bruised ribs and his lacerations and a few solid kicks to the stomach to create a _diversion_ for the great consulting detective, he wasn't inclined to look kindly on him. Or to look on him at all, aside from sneaking a glance at Sherlock's reflection in the screen as he stepped up behind Greg's chair and rested his (surprisingly warm) hands upon his shoulders.

"You don't look so bad." Sherlock's fingers sank gently into the soft flesh of his shoulders, just beneath the bone.

"I'm fine," Greg said, adding just enough of a stubborn whinge to it to imply that he _wasn't_ , thank you very much. "Perfectly happy without you barging in."

"Mm." An empty lo mein carton rustled against the carpet as Sherlock nudged it with his toe. "Fat and happy, yes."

"Oh, that's really nice -"

"I just came to see how you were getting on," Sherlock continued, speaking over him with a poor attempt at nonchalance. Goddamnit, he wanted something. "You looked a little rough when they carted you off. It seemed best to check in."

"Yeah? _You're welcome._ "

Sherlock sniffed. "I already said 'thank you.'" His hands passed under Greg's open shirt, rolling it slowly back; his thumbs slid against bare skin, pressing into the stiff muscles running along Greg's spine, warm and firm and, as always, curious. It was easy now to shake off the tightening grip of uncertainty, of _this is a bad idea_ that had clutched at him the first time Sherlock's hands had shoved themselves under his clothes - he'd had years of practice, and even if it was still a _terrible_ idea, he'd come to believe that he deserved something nice every once in a while.

"Must have missed it while they were strapping me into the trolley," he muttered. His body was easing under Sherlock's attention, but that was no reason to adjust his attitude.

"Please. No one strapped you into anything." 

"I'm not sure how you'd know." Greg stifled a gasp when Sherlock bent to suck at his ear, struggled to stay slumped in his seat as one of Sherlock's hands grazed down his chest to brush lightly over the tender, purple skin just above his waistband. "You were too busy gloating over your prey to spare a moment for the poor bastard in the back of the ambulance."

Sherlock snorted. The hot air rushed along Greg's throat, leaving a cool in its wake that made him arch his neck up in search of warmth. "You were doing just fine without my help." The sound of it rumbled over the back of his ear, low and just a little sly. "I assure you, I was paying _very_ close attention."

"No, you -"

"Not after. During." His fingers drew careful lines in parallel with the bandages, up and down, and up again. "When you slammed that gentleman against the wall, for instance -"

"Right before he took a fucking prybar to my chest, you mean -"

"Yes, yes. And when you broke that one fellow's nose - yes, I was watching." Sherlock's hand stopped, resting heavily just over Greg's heart, no doubt measuring the undeniably quickening pulse. "I remember thinking, just then, that it was a shame you were going to be a little banged up. Because there was nothing I'd have liked better than to have you bend me over."

Greg stopped breathing.

There was a lilt in Sherlock's voice that sounded like a smile, and he probably _was_ teasing, but - well, it was hard to care. "I was thinking," Sherlock continued, warmer, softer, his lips moving _maddeningly_ close to the crest of Greg's ear, "that I didn't care who saw. That you could have me up against the wall if you wanted, over the back of the car - that it didn't matter, that I'd have got down on my knees in the gutter in that filthy alley and sucked you off just to have you in me."

"Christ," Greg breathed.

"Quite. I like the way you look when you're throwing a man off you, you know - there's a certain something about watching you rip into his shirt or bloody his mouth or grab his throat that makes me want to get under you. I think it might be your hands." Sherlock reached deliberately down to grip Greg's wrists, to splay out his fingers and study Greg's knuckles, still rough and red from two days before. "But I thought," he said, his face sliding in smooth and solid against Greg's cheek, "that telling you I wanted your hands on the back of my neck, that I wanted you to fuck me on my knees in the middle of the street, that I needed your cock inside me like I needed to fucking breathe …" He paused, and Greg _knew_ he was letting that word sink in - knowing full well the effect of profanity falling out of that tight, pale, aristocratic mouth - and the warm weight filling his slacks was too much to ignore, suddenly far, far more important than making sure to give Sherlock his rightful dose of grousing. "I thought telling you all of that while you were doubled over and in need of stitches might be a touch - indelicate."

Greg reached up to sink his hand into Sherlock's hair, twisting none too gently. "You could have a go now," he suggested, his knees tipping obligingly apart. 

"Oh, _may_ I?" Sherlock straightened, and the sudden loss of the heat and pressure of him was almost enough to prompt a moan. " _May_ I kneel among your rubbish, your days-old takeaway, and get you off while you watch _Our World_?"

Greg twisted in his chair, turning his head back to protest - but the half-grin that had broken over Sherlock's face was enough to silence his complaint. Still, words weren't coming to him, and his mouth hung open not altogether intelligently as he tried to think of something better to say than _please_.

"In bed," Sherlock said with a jerk of his chin. "Unless you've been eating there, too."

Greg gripped the arms of his chair and steeled himself for the stab of pain as he hoisted himself to his feet. "You are absolutely the fussiest -"

"Oh, look. He _can_ walk."

Sherlock slung his arm low around Greg's waist and they made their halting way to the bedroom, where Greg dropped gratefully onto the mattress and suffered through the pull and burn of his abdominal muscles as he lay back. He shut his eyes and breathed through the dulling pain as Sherlock clambered up beside him. His mouth tightened as the pain flared again - better this time, easier - when Sherlock unfastened his trousers. The smooth warmth of his hand and then the hot, wet intensity of his mouth - not wasting any _more_ time in teasing today, apparently, and for that he was grateful - soothed the stinging in his side even as they exacerbated it, and with every inhalation, exhalation, expansion, contraction, every throb of his cock against Sherlock's busy tongue and the back of his throat brought a wave of ache and relief that made Greg's head spin. He was silent, wound as tightly in the sensation as he was in the tension of his own muscles, and it was only when the pressure and the heat and the pain wound together _too_ tightly and his hips thrust forward and Sherlock's fingers tightened in the loose fabric of his trousers and he spilled into Sherlock's mouth that a tight, strangled sound broke out of his throat, pleasure and need and the wringing of his entire body bound up in one stifled noise.

And it was then that he realized he'd never opened his eyes, that his fingers were still wound ruthlessly into Sherlock's hair, and that he was pressing Sherlock's face against the metal zipper of his open fly. Greg sucked in a breath, lifted his head, and released him, wetting his lips with his tongue and regarding him with affection, with concern - and with absolutely no amusement _whatsoever_ at the reddened impression of the zipper running along Sherlock's chin. It wouldn't do to laugh.

"You were quiet," Sherlock said, thoughtful, as he rubbed idly at his jaw. "You're all right?"

"Yeah." Greg swallowed; then grinned. "Yeah. I'm all right." _Thanks,_ he was about to say, _for stopping by_ –

"Good." Sherlock produced Greg's phone and tossed it onto his chest, which was still rising and falling with exertion. "Then call Dimmock. I've just come from his crime scene, and he's being the most unreasonable ass."


End file.
